we dream so long
by escapedreality
Summary: Panem in one hundred ways. Forty-Eight: Storm / Or how Annie sails her boat with sure hands and steady feet.
1. perception

**a/n:** First time I'm challenging myself with 100 prompts. Let's go. Drabbles, oneshots and perhaps a mini-series? And yes, title from Lupe Fiasco's "The Show Goes On".

we dream so long

_prompt six: innocence_

"perception"  
>(or when Mags realized she'd been living a fifty year lie)<p>

.

Finnick accompanies her as a Mentor the year following his own victory. Not unprecedented, no; still, he is younger than both or this year's tributes- Careers- by at least two years.

He gives sparse advice to them, she notes during the days leading up to the arena, after they'd been plucked, picked and interviewed to perfection. His eyes dart around through dinners and as they watch the tributes receive their Gamemaker's scores.

Then Claudius Templesmith's voice soars over the loud speakers in the arena, the Games begin and Finnick all but disappears.

Each night- no, more every other- he returns. His eyes cast down and his shoulders slump and his eyes dartdartdart. He's quiet and one thing Mags knows for sure is that this is not the cocky, loud, perhaps obnoxious boy who won but a year ago. His eyes are dull; the sea is dead.

.

There are five tributes left when he sneaks into her room well past midnight. His hair is rumpled and so is his shirt; she sits up quickly to ask him what's wrong, what's happened when he plops down next to her, curls into her shoulder and bursts into tears.

She wraps her arms around him, far past protecting him from anything now.

"Finnick?" she whispers into the scattered light from the Capitol outside. He shakes his head, sobs subsiding. "What's wrong with my little guppy?" she asks, hoping, praying for a smile at the nickname.

He raises his head slightly and then pulls away, comforted by the soft words that hint at a lost language, dialect, _something_ from long ago.

"They-" he pauses, afraid momentarily of the consequences. He spills the words, his secret to the venerable ears of his Mentor. And the entire world shifts under her feet.

.

She's a victor. Young, fit, and as happy as her conscious can let her be in this world. Her hair's grown back, long and blond and sea-worn as before (because no one- _no one_- touches it. Not even her prep team; they've seen what she can do with a couple fishhooks), her skin's shiny and her eyes gleam blue from yearly remakes at the Games.

Except this year's different. This year she doesn't go to the large showing room to watch her Mentorees fight to the death. This year a girl, a victor herself from District One (or maybe Three?) comes to drag her away to a small room with slightly ridiculous outfits and six people dressed identically.

The outfit is black and tight and far too revealing for her liking and the make-up is suffocating and heavy and-

she doesn't even know what goes _into_ a shot.

She's a bartender now, because she doesn't have a choice, because she loves her family back in Four. She puts up with the vulgar remarks, the men (and women) who go just a touch too far, with the indignity of it all because she cares.

And because, well, she'd only imagined that this was as bad it could get.

Bartending for the socialites of the Capitol was innocent enough.

.

She worries the following year, when he's gone more, gone longer.

She cries the year after that when he's gone near ninety percent of the time and returns with a smirk jauntily perched on his maturing face and a infamous reputation growing.

.

She cries for the guppy who was fourteen and scared inside and wasn't supposed to beat out an ocean of sharks anyway.


	2. seeking solace

**a/n: **I have a feeling Johanna and Finnick were really good friends, both being victors and well, Haymitch is always just there. :) This originally was long and drawn out and had about fifty other characters involved but I thought this was more to the point- even if it's short.

we dream so long

_prompt four: seeking solace_

"Solace"  
>(or when all the riches in the world can't surpass empathy)<p>

.

Beetee made a habit of playing the propos repeatedly as often as he could break into the Capitol's system. It was inspiring for people, Coin had insisted. But that was before the "We Remember" sections; it was before Finnick's big television break. Johanna is not sure whose idea it is but is positive she doesn't like them very much.

Finnick sits next to her on the edge of the narrow hospital bed and Haymitch had found himself a chair and her dose of morphling and _damnit he wants a drink! _Preferably, some hard liquor. But District 13 is clean and dry and she is distracted, besides, so she lets him have it.

Beetee's finagled some screen time again and it's the middle of the propo they see:

"He threatens and manipulates you. It's not a choice, it's a decision. Compliance is benign and refusal- " Finnick's recorded voice pauses and he now has a vice-like grip on her forearm. Recorded Finnick's voice is flat as he mutters the name of the only one he couldn't save. The seven-year old could swim, sure, but never out swim a mutt.

His hand grips her wrist and her nails dig into his knee and Haymitch uses the last of the morphling dose.

The Capitol's back.

Now Beetee.

Capitol.

Beetee.

And each time the rebel's regain control, the lines are short.

"The Capitol refuses to be usurped. You trick them in the arena? Look at Haymitch Aberthany, look at your own Mockingjay! If you refuse them out of the arena? Look at Johanna Mason. These are your Victors, Panem, look well."

"Annie is a lucky girl, Finnick," Haymitch mutters gruffly while Johanna gives a curt nod.

No one cries, no one screams; no one reacts.

FinnickJohannaHaymitch- Victors- sit and watch and grit their teeth against it all because that's what they've always been best at.

All they need is someone to understand-

and who better than Capitol made replicas of themselves?

.


	3. sleep

**a/n:** I love Haymitch.

we dream so long

_pr__ompt thirty-five: relaxation_

"Sleep"  
>(or when Maysilee learns to trust and Haymitch learns his audience.)<p>

.

The words pop out of her mouth before she can recall them and he accepts before she can even process the whole situation- being reaped, the Games, the Quell, Haymitch-

and they're off.

.

They rest under the cover of darkness and the large leaves of a decidedly non-poisonous tree that is hopefully uninhabited save for two exhausted tributes from a District that was never meant to make it this far. She takes the time to open her pack and reload her darts. Haymitch sits beside her, sharpening his knife.

By her guess, it's been an hour or so since the faces of the dead tributes lit up the evening sky. There are only ten left: herself and Haymitch, two girls from One, a boy from Four, three from Two, one from Seven and the last from Ten. Thirty-eight dead. She rubs her eyes to stay awake and tries to not to think about how two of the thirty-eight were also District Twelve.

Haymitch stops sharpening his knife to glance at her, the refracted moonlight shining unevenly on his dark, Seam features. "Why don't you get some sleep, Maysilee" he suggests. She shakes her head, suppressing an involuntary yawn.

"I'm fine, you can sleep if you'd like."

He rolls his eyes and scoffs at her, "Have you even slept at all since the Games started?"

She pauses: "A bit." It's a lie of course. Three, no, four- five (?) days and she'd received maybe ten minutes in total.

"Uh-huh. Well, you look like shit," he says bluntly, reaching over carefully and taking the poisoned darts out of her grasp. He pulls his pack against a log and pats it. "Here, all the comforts of your Merchant Quarters, I'm sure," he says sardonically. With a scowl to match his usual one, she turns her back and rests her head against it.

She closes only one eye and stays awake, listening.

He doesn't talk, doesn't move much either except for the occasional shift to prevent his legs from falling asleep. The temperature drops during the night and she feels herself encased by some sort of fabric. Considerably warmer, it takes far more will power to stay awake.

She'd counted on him drawing his knife, on trying to smother her or _something_. Not kindness and warmth- at least, not from him of all people.

And so as dawn breaks slowly over the deceptively beautiful arena, she decides to trust him.

.

Two days later she drifts asleep quickly, curling into his shoulder with blonde hair falling over closed eyes and his shirt is in her iron grip, as if she was afraid he'd up and disappear. He can't help but give a small smile; at home, in District Twelve, this would be all but unheard of- Seam boy, Merchant girl? His smile widens when the silver parachute lands about a meter to her right: this isn't home, it's the Hunger Games and the Capitol citizens are suckers for anything remotely cute.

For a moment, he considers jumping up to retrieve it; there's no doubt food or water inside and he can't remember the last time he ate enough to fill his stomach. Instead he uses all the self-control he possesses and leans his head back against the tree trunk, dropping her darts beside him and reaching over to brush her hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear.

Another silver parachute lands beside the first and allowing himself a small chuckle he thinks that this is perhaps even better than any amount of sleep.


	4. surface

we dream so long

_prompt seventy-four: scars_

"Surface"  
>(or when Gale finds a chink in Johanna Mason's self-imposed armor)<p>

"Hawthorne!" The voice cuts clear across the square, to where the man in questions sits on the steps of the old Justice Building, mopping his face with his shirt under the mid-day sun. The ball of fury stalks her way across the stone, her hair finally reaching her chin and her brown eyes narrowed; for a small woman she has quite the commanding presence-

Johanna Mason is livid.

Gale casts his eyes downward, to the letter recently received from Plutarch Heavensbee, all but begging him to come to the Capitol and be on camera. He declines (again) trying to convince Heavensbee that he's happy with his current position and President Paylor is happy and really, the former Gamemaker should just quit while he's ahead. He makes weapons and deals with weapons- always has, probably always will (because it's what haunts his conscience, whether he welcomes it or not)

The thought brings him to bombs, to sweet little Prim, to Katniss-

"Hawthorne! Did you hear a damned word I just said?" Johanna is peering over him, blocking the sun and the sensation is so unusual that he stands and feels far less intimidated when she just reaches past his shoulder.

"No," he says, grabbing his shirt and turning away. He doesn't want to deal with her right now- cynical, abrasive Johanna Mason is most _definitely_ not who he wants to deal with at the moment.

(But to be honest, he's not in the mood to talk to anyone. It's just unfortunate for her that she was the final straw.)

She has a knack for exploiting the weaknesses of others, seeing where their flaws lie and ripping that gap wide open. It's practically a thing of pride now, nearly nine years after her first Games and she tells herself it's the only reason she's in this forsaken District right now- everyone said she'd be great at fixing (pointing out) military flaws, Capitol flaws, District flaws (they must think she's like her fucking head-doctor; who also agrees, by the way).

Peeta, Volts, Haymitch-

Of them all, she goes because of the old drunkard.

Which brings her to the next few sentences and the realization that her hindsight in far clearer than foresight: if she had any foresight she would have died in one of those Games. "What-" she starts but doesn't finish, spotting the strips of pale white flesh that pattern Gale's back, many as wide as her thumb if not wider. She gives a snort of disbelief; "Our dear Mockingjay likes it rough, does she?"

The jibe garners a initial glance over his shoulder, "Excuse me?"

"Because, you know she seemed so _innocent_-"

"Fuck off, Mason."

"Well, except when she was cuddling with Lover Boy," she baits, leaning against the granite columns, making an inappropriate gesture with her hands.

She expected anger, sadness and everything else except one thing: for Gale Hawthorne to bite back.

He pins her wrists to the wall by her hips with his big, calloused hands and looks down at the young woman who smirks back. "Sorry, not all of us have been able to live it up as a Victor- money, fame and perfect skin for the Capitol to fuck," he growls. It's incorrect, rude and insensitive for the most part-

but so is Johanna Mason.

She flinches as if burned (or doused in water, as it were) and kicks off the column to stand on her two feet and push him away. For a moment he thinks she'll follow with a punch; instead she brushes by him, stalking up the steps of the Justice Building and disappearing inside.

...

She disappears for two months and two weeks in, he realizes it's probably his fault.

...

A consistent chill sweeps over the District as the year moves forward, time forever unyielding. He ponders occasionally that this was the time of year he learned to be quiet, treading over fallen leaves in their spectrum of colors. People would occasionally venture to pick the fallen apples by the fence but never further, though that's where the best ones lay. Mayor Undersee paid nearly as much for those as the strawberries.

But this isn't District Twelve and there are no fond memories here, only cold stones in a cold places leading to-

an unclothed Johanna Mason standing on his doorstep.

Although, it doesn't look like the woman he remembers last seeing and well, she's not _completely_ undressed- but close enough.

Her skin paler than he remembers and her body is laced in white strings. Or so it seems, until he realizes it's part of her skin, these lines.

A vicious mark is displayed across her right jaw and along her temple. A patch the size of a fist glares from the inside of her knee and the tell-tale sign of a stab wound along her left bicep. A slice cuts across her chest at an angle, then tilts the other way from ribs to hip.

Black words are inked down her spine, raised where they covers scars.

_We all fall down._

Then she cocks her hips, resting one hand on one and idly twisting her shirt through the fingers of the other.

"Do these scars meet your standards, Hawthorne?" she asks. Her voice lacks it's normal venom- no malice, no sarcasm. It's the voice of someone who's ancient in so few years.

He recognizes it as his own.

**a/n:** "We all fall down" of "Ring around the Rosie" fame. Why? I'm sure it'll be explained in the near future :)


	5. shift

we dream so long

_prompt sixty-eight: unseen_

"shift"  
>(or when the tides changed for Johanna Mason)<p>

The pills were dispensed like candy and the drinks flowed in rivers from the purple tattooed bartender's skilled hands into the sugar frosted glasses of Circenses. Three huge television covered three-fourths of the curved walls, watched by eager betters.

And him.

He watched curiously as the cameras focused in on the District Seven girl following her ally. She stumbled behind, feet turned in and head bowed, clutching the bowie knife between her two trembling hands.

A woman with fuschia skin and leopard spotted hair captures his lips with her own, her hands sure and steady as they trek down his torso. He keeps his eyes open and on the screens surrounding them, now devoted to a Gamemaker planned encounter between huge boy from One and twig of a kid from Eight. The cameras forget all about District Seven and her trembling hands.

Finnick sighs, smiling and sweet-talking the woman in front of him instead of watching the boy from Eight have his head bashed in with One's self-made mace.

Circenses— drinks and drugs with a side of murder, for your viewing pleasure.

Eight's cannon sounds and the giant eighteen year old who'd killed him grins as he mops the blood off the mace with the dead boys shirt. And then there were five.

Then suddenly there are cheers and shouts and booing from the crowd as the cameras frantically pan back to Seven and her ally from Ten, a hulking blonde girl. Seven, Johanna's her name apparently (as he watches it flash across the screen) is no longer timid. One is no longer alive.

Claudius Templesmith is crowing as he recaps the past few moments. Eight's cannon fires and in the forest, Johanna raises the bowie knife, easily holding it with one hand, the muscles of her small arms defined. She shifts her footing and the knife goes flying forward, sticking in the back of blondie's neck. She collapses forward in a heap, cannon firing before she even hits the forest floor.

And then there were four.

Johanna's demeanor changes, no longer shuffling pigeoned toed but loping over with a wolf's stride to her former ally. She removes her knife, cutting the pack from the girl's back and emptying the contents into her own. She pries the small axe from her grip and secures it in her own belt.

She straightens up, considering the corpse for a moment. She gathers her long dark hair in one fist and with a steady hand slices off a bundle with the still bloody knife; the remaining hair hangs unevenly at her chin, framing a gaunt face, the tips dripping red.

The woman on his lap turns now to face the screen as well and her face lights up, jabbering about how red tipped hair will be the newest craze if this girl can win this thing.

Johanna gives a wary glance about her surroundings before taking off once again in that loping stride, a smirk perched jauntily on her lips and her whole form just exuding confidence. And that's when Finnick realizes how brilliant this girl is- faking weakeness, betraying her partner, the confidence.

Because while everyone else is exaulting in the betrayal, he's watching her eyes: deep brown and withdrawn.

But she's Johanna Mason and a infamous actor and no one else is paying attention to her eyes anyway.


	6. bastard

**a/n: **File under my depressing headcannon. I'll come up with a happier drabble next, I promise!

we dream so long

_prompt ninety-eight: grandparents_

"Bastard"  
>(or how reality didn't meet expectations for Caleb Hawthorne)<p>

_Expectations_:

Everyone knew or at the very least, knew of, Caleb Hawthorne. He was the son of Johanna and Gale Hawthorne and was the factor that drew Gale and his lifetime friend, Katniss back together years after the end of the war. He spent his days causing mischief with many of his cousins in the rebuilt confines of District Twelve.

He had his family and was content.

_Reality:_

Everyone- well, most people knew of Caleb Hawthorne.

He was the bastard child of Johanna Mason, former Victor and certifiably insane, accoriding to Capitol doctors sticking their heads where they aren't wanted. Any protests from her, from Gale Hawthorne, from Haymitch Abernathy, from Annie Odair were ignored- even from President Paylor.

(Because as far as they're concerned, they're all insane too. And besides, Capitol citizens thrive on this shit and they still want their entertainment)

His godmother doesn't know she has a godson and his godfather's fifteen years dead.

So he lives with his grandmother- the only one he's got and passes his time playing mostly alone on the unmarked graves of District Twelve. Occassionally he drifts past the ghost of a fence and into the woods and tells stories to the Mockingjays but they don't repeat it- they've heard it all before.

No one's content and Rome wasn't built in a day, either.


	7. cute

**a/n:** Because I promised, a little Gale and Posy sibling bonding!

we dream so long

_prompt seventy-three: bunny_

"Cute"  
>(Or when Gale decides just to tell her it's squirrel)<p>

Every once in while, they would have a jackpot day hunting. The arrows would be connecting, the snares catching and a perfect abundance of various berries and other plants to be found everywhere. When those days fell on a birthday, it was even better. When it happened to be Posy's birthday, Gale was extremely pleased. After all, squirrel was good but rabbit was twenty times better.

That is until, Gale and Katniss entered the Hawthorne residence to see Prim, duck-tail and all, tying a pink-ribboned bow around a small rabbit the color of coal.

(Or perhaps, just covered in it)

"Gale!" Posy shrieked, running up and hugging him around his legs, before prying herself away to do the same thing to Katniss. Hazelle looked on amusedly, preparing dinner with Mrs. Everdeen.

"Where are Vick and Rory?" Katniss asked, bringing the game bag over to the small counter.

"They went to find something to make a cage for Posy's gift," she responded, gesturing toward the rabbit held tightly in the sure hands of Primrose Everdeen.

"And who gave you..." he paused, considering the size of the thing and realizing his first thought was how much money it's meat would sell for. "That," he finished, deciding against referring to it as a meal for once in his life.

Posy ran over to the small animal, carefully taking it away from Prim and holding it in her lap, petting it carefully. "Primro' got it for me. Just like she gotten Lady! Because bunnies are cute!"

"Has Lady," Hazelle corrected, opening the bag. When she peered in the top she paused, stifling a giggle. "And Gale? You didn't happen to get anything else?"

"Bunnies are also food."

"No! We don't eat bunnies! You're lying Gale! They're cute!" said Posy angrily, clutching the rabbit so tightly Gale thought she might break the damn thing's neck. Katniss' eyes went wide and then she began laughing; a deep belly laugh so hard she could barely catch a breath. Gale glared at her disapprovingly but slowly began to grin as well, reaching out for his baby sister and lifting her up.

"Well, then good thing Katniss and I had an abundance of squirrel in the woods today, right?" he asked, tapping her nose lightly.

"Right!" she said grinning like a mad-child.

...

Annie gives a small, shaky smile- the only response she's given thus far since they've escaped the Capitol. "Bunnies are cute," she affirms. Gale smiles a bit sadly and holds her hand tightly the entire ride back to District Thirteen.

"Yes, Annie, they are."


	8. forget

**a/n:** This is ah, AU. I started wondering about what would happen if Foxface had won and then Gale just, appeared. Welp, enjoy! (And Volpes is pronounced Volps... it looks nicer with the e.)

we dream so long

_prompt fifty-four: lock and key_

"Forget"  
>(or how they're not that different, really)<p>

The seventy-fourth Hunger Games ended with her one and only kill. She hadn't exactly been in on the action during the other twenty-two deaths but she's decided that this, by far, must be the worst to ever grace the Capitol's screens.

The blond boy from District Twelve is encouraging her, holding his hands up and sliding his (former) partner's blunt knife toward her. His hastily bandaged leg has broken open again, from neglect and without the aid of the medicine his partner, the fire girl, went to the feast for and never returned with- never returned at all. She decides then and there that the wounded boy before her must have really loved that girl- the pain is present in his eyes.

"Please-" he croaks out. She grasps the knife with all the courage she can muster- she's not confrontational and this is obscenely difficult. He points vaguely to the area around his heart, leaning back against the cavern wall, closing his eyes peacefully. She aims and brings down the knife with all the force she can gather, wanting to provide him with the quickest death she can think of.

She closes her eyes as well, as the knife impacts the body and the boy who was so in love convulses forward slightly, before sagging against the wall.

His cannon fires, they announce her victor.

All she can see is the blood that coats her hand.

...

It's unfortunate that the Victory Tour has to start with District Twelve. The place is small, smaller than her own District and everyone in the crowd glares at her as she begins her Capitol authorized speech. The boy's family sits to the left of the stage. His father's eyes are rimmed red and his brothers' are glassy. The mother alone is dry eyed.

On the right is the girl's family- Mother and younger sister, both pale and blond and nothing like the fighter from the arena. A tall, dark haired boy stands clutching the young girl's shoulders, with who she can only assume are his own siblings clustered around him.

She recognizes him with a jolt, as one of District Twelve's two living victors, the victor of the seventy-third Games who'd won his games by systematically hunting down his remaining opponents when he reached the final eight. She also remembers him from the highlights and interviews of her own Games, only six months prior. They called him the girl's cousin- how tragic it was for the family.

But when she glances at him, his eyes say nothing of "cousin". They scream at her, a dozen vile names that do nothing to show the magnitude of his anger. The blond boy may have been her only kill but she came home when the girl on fire didn't-

and it would appear Katniss was far more star-crossed than the Capitol thought.

...

The first Games she mentors for is the Third Quarter Quell. She watches as the two tributes from her District die in the bloodbath, the girl trying to protect her younger brother with every ounce of her being.

She fails.

The Quell is matching District against District and family against family; she silently is thankful for being the youngest child as she watches the old Mentor from District Four, Mags, flounder as her grandchildren fight for their lives in the Arena. And she's not the only Victor who has something to lose-

Secured somewhat safely on the rocky precipice overlooking the Cornucopia, are a little blond girl and her equally dark haired cousin. The golden Mockingjay pin that she recognizes as her former competitor's token glistens on her sister's shirt. The only familial resemblance Primrose Everdeen has to her cousin are her gray eyes, warily locked on the bloody scene below.

Her eldest cousin has the same ones and they're watching the screen before the assembled group of Mentors with a fire in them, hidden behind a stony face. He leaves the room when Finnick Odair comforts old Mags, who garbles unintelligibly- an eerie sound emitting from her throat- as her once vivacious granddaughter falls still under the hands of the District Two girl.

Careers, successful at the Cornucopia, began stalking their way up the mountain toward little Primrose and the dark haired boy, Rory. The latter were unarmed save for a small knife more suited to paring than anything else and square foot of thick blue plastic. Momentarily safe in their ignorance, Rory gathers Primrose in his arms muttering words into her hair that are too soft for the microphones to pick up.

That's when her suspicions surface and it hits her: the District Twelve tributes are no more cousins to each other than she is to them. And they're most certainly not there by the whim of fate.

Growing more anxious with each passing moment, she slips out the door under the view of Finnick Odair. He catches her eye for only a moment but long enough for him to give a barely perceivable nod.

...

"Get out! I don't need anything!" Gale Hawthorne shouts at the red head entering the otherwise empty lounge. She bristles at being referred to as an Avox; she's rich now, she's free- she won't serve anyone.

"I'm not a servant, mute or otherwise," she tells him scornfully. She's approaching him now from the side: not the front in case she be mistaken as aggressive and never from behind- if you value your face you never approach a Victor from behind.

"Request still stands, Volpes," he says tersely, adjusting his words to something resembling respect.

"And what if I want to stay here and drink myself into oblivion?"

"You're too young."

This coaxes an acidic laugh from her as she takes the bottle from him anyway, taking a large swig and near reveling in the way it burns down her throat. It makes her bold: "You're not the only one who's been victimized by the Games, y'know."

He shoots her a dirty look, reclaiming his bottle and his brooding look; "Yeah, poor you and your one kill. A cushy talent and life-"

"What the _fuck_ are you going on about? I good as killed those twenty-three other kids by surviving, I've already killed two tonight! You have the same damn life, no amount of self-pity is going to change it!" she shouts at him, slamming the glass against the white marble table. He nearly blurts something out but holds back- his brother is already in the Arena; he doesn't need any more odds against him because of Gale's loose tongue.

He retorts to his increasingly acerbic self; "Well since you've got it all figured out, I'll excuse myself to watch my brother die in peace."

The resignation in his voice startles her: "He could win, you know."

"My brother is going to die." He says slowly and deliberately. Pain flickers briefly across his features and then, he's gone.

...

District Twelve manages to reach the final eight for the second year in a row. The Capitol reporters flock to the tributes' homes for interviews.

"My brother is not Primrose Everdeen's cousin. Just as I never was Katniss Everdeen's." The crowds go wild, wanting an encore of their star-crossed lovers from the mining District.

The change is announced the following day.

...

She sits on the edge of the velvet chair, next to Seeder from District Eleven. She anticipates the very horns she heard in her own victory, the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith-

but when the famed announcer does speak it's only to revoke earlier amendments and Volpes wonders if the same thing would have happened if Katniss and the blond boy had made it all the way the year before. Probably.

Seeder sighs, completely unsurprised.

...

Gale Hawthorne is standing on the edge of the roof when she places a small freckled hand on his shoulder. For the first time since his victory two years prior, he breaks down. He sags against the colorful wall of the rooftop, where the lights of the Capitol just reach making a white light sea across buildings, swaying with the beat of faint music from various clubs creating their own cacophony.

She wonders what she's supposed to say in this situation: Sorry your brother killed himself? Sorry you were right about him? Sorry you won your Games and Katniss died and her sister won the following year?

Volpes kneels down beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and clasping her hands together, resting them on his chest and her chin on his shoulder. For a moment, he moves to pull away but reconsiders and sinks back down. She begins to murmur meaningless consolations in his ear, rocking back and forth. It's the idea that counts anyway.

She stays with him until morning, waking him from nightmares as the night drags on. When the sun breaks over the Capitol, she covers him with her jacket- which is too small and shocking red- before treading softly back down the stairs and leaving the building quickly.

...

He shows up her doorstep- in the Capitol, that is- exactly a year later, during the height of the seventy-sixth Games.

"Can I-?"

He cuts her off, kissing her earnestly. She pushes him away and he flinches so violently she feels momentarily guilty. "Gale, what are you doing?" she asks. His eyes are dilated and his breathing is too quick; small traces of whatever he's drugged up on stain his fingertips. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and drops his head, taking a step closer.

"I, I want to forget it, Volpes!"

There is alcohol on his breath and her first thought is _So this is what the Great Gale Hawthorne has been reduced to._ But then she considers herself, and her tributes: one dead in the first five minutes, the other without a shred of dignity or humanity left in him at this point.

It's not honorable or responsible or any other synonyms ending in -ble. But it's the life she won and she doesn't want to recall it either. So she pulls him into the apartment and downs the bottle in the back of the cabinet (_In case of emergency_, Haymitch had insisted).

They mute the television and cover it with their clothing and forget it all.

**a/n:** Longer than intended. Oops.


	9. vengence

**a/n: **I think that all the other Victor's would have wanted a shot at Snow too. Also, a fair amount of swearing.

we dream so long

_prompt forty-three: die_

"Vengence"  
>(Sometimes formalities just don't cover it - she needs closure.)<p>

There were executions, of course.

Even the perfectly pure Peeta had agreed to that- although, his recent hijacking probably was influential. Not everyone, not slaughter (not the Hunger Games) but somewhere someone had drudged up lists of old war crimes, from before the Dark Days- from other places. And it was safe to say that these criteria were more than met by the old Gamemakers.

Save Plutarch alone, all the other Head Gamemakers were slated for death. There were only six others still alive (and seven, if Snow hadn't gotten there first). It was a hydra's head and all the necks would be burned before new ones grew in their place.

The Victors- the ones who wanted to- were allowed to be present. To watch, observe but not administer. Still, the name "Johanna Mason" was enough to inspire fear and awe and a portion of time alone with Nero Caligula, who had presided over the sixtieth to seventieth Games. Quality reminiscing, she'd told the guard caustically, slipping him the money on her way in the door. She never promised the state he'd be in when she finished their… _conversation_.

The room looked like a cell, as she pointed out to the aging man while she leaned against the steel door, "Oh wait," she amended, "It was."

"Mason-"

"What's my name? Can you even tell me that? You tried to kill me, I figured you'd know my name. How about the girl who beat your final arena? The one you made swim for THREE DAYS!"

The woman's voice reverberated throughout the cold room and the man, secured firmly to the chair, flinched violently as she stalked around him. Her pupils were slits and he could see ropy muscles tense in her arms. Her hair was cropped close to her head, like a soldier's. Briefly, he recalled the real reason: but that had been all Snow... all Snow.

Oddly enough, Miss Mason couldn't give less of a damn and he recalls that this is the same person who, at fifteen, killed four other children herself.

Maybe it's slightly comforting that she doesn't currently have possession of an axe with her.

Maybe not.

She cuffs him hard on the back of his neck, pummeling his head with well placed punches, her yelling becoming progressively shriller.

"You sadistic bastard! You fucking piece of shit! You killed two hundred and forty kids! Does that make you happy?"

"Two hundred and thirty," he feels necessary to point out, blood dribbling down his chin. He's going to die anyway. "Ten of them survived."

It was the wrong thing to say: she leans over, digging her nails into his wrist, her eyes wild; "I. Did not. Survive."

Her voice is barely a whisper but then it rises again, with as much variety as the ocean. She punches him in the face and he feels his nose crack. His jaw, His eye.

"Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!" She retreats, panting and voice hoarse, resting her hands on her knees. Somehow, she finds the energy to stand back up, raising her hand in a fist again-

"Fuck. You."

"Johanna!"

This is a new voice and all he can recognize in the room, his eye swollen shut and the other blurred and on its way. The voice is male, his footsteps slaps across the floor. He stands in front of him-

"Oh yes, fuck you."

The punch is the last thing the Gamemaker feels before he loses consciousness, head lolling forward on his bloodied shirt. The momentary silence is broken by sobs from the girl, slump to the ground, body shaking. The sobs grow louder, wails now, and she slams her fist on the ground. Again. And again.

Haymitch catches her hand the next time, lifting her to shaky feet and slinging her arm around his shoulder, leading her out of the room. Comfort is something he's become surprisingly adept at in the past few months. She's a mess and he's drunk and this is the exact reason Paylor had advised the Victors against going to see the criminals.

Still, the guard says nothing but a polite "Hello" to Haymitch on their way out; he ignores the blood on her knuckles and shirt.


	10. fluster

**a/n:** A more analytical piece because I should be doing my essay on _The Scarlet Letter_ instead of writing THG fanfiction. But hey, plans change!

we dream so long

_prompt seventy-six: confusion_

"Fluster"  
>(or full throttle, no brake and how she never wanted all of this)<p>

01.

"I volunteer!"

It's almost ironic really, because the words raced out quite involuntarily, not allowing time for processing the information. Call it instinct or what have you, it doesn't really matter the name. The effect remains the same.

02.

She joins up with the little wisp of a girl instead of the boy who would literally die for her. Because this little girl reminds her of a sister miles and miles away, in one of the poorest neighborhoods of the poorest Districts in the grandgrandgrand country that is Panem.

Then the little girl dies and she joins the boy and everything is back on the Capitol's agenda.

("I volunteer! I volunteer!")

03.

She would have lost, she thinks, if she knew it was a never-ending game. If she knew she'd be a Capitol pawn the rest of her life, dragging the boy with the bread- who meant no harm- into this mess with her.

Because she only wanted to save her sister once and for all, not keep her consistent danger that hinged on her rebellious brain. If she had known, the berries would have tasted sweet.

("I volunteer! I volunteer!")

04.

Instinct is an amazing thing and so is rebellion, in its own twisted way. It's like rolling a rock down a hill, gaining speed with each turn, gathering no moss, only force.

And she denounced being a Capitol pawn to help the Rebels but she never considered becoming a figurehead or an inspiration for anyone. All she saw was Prim's name on Effie's horrible pink lips and wanted to save her. She couldn't save her father, or her mother but she'd be damned if she failed Prim then.

Or if she failed her now.

("I volunteer! I volunteer!")

05.

The rebellion has more force than stone now; stones make small ripples in lakes. This is like the bullet train that took her away on unconscious words, speeding full throttle toward its destination with no brake and no intention of stopping to a smooth halt.

And the bombs are loud and noisy and shake her heart.

The train has reached its destination.

("I volunteer! I volunteer!")

00.

She never volunteered for this.


	11. big

**a/n:** Long weekends are brilliant.

we dream so long

_prompt ninety-three: wild_

"Big"  
>(or how her District unknowingly bred a winner)<p>

The arena is dry- red, brittle earth is cracked from the lack or moisture and only a small hardy plants survive outside the tiny oasis in the desert's center: a beautiful pond, surrounded by soft swaying trees that rain fruit when the winds howl. The Cornicopia sits on the edge of the pond, picked clean by Careers and providing a valuable source of shelter.

_The prairies grasses whistled as the breeze brushed over them, cattle grazing contentedly. On the horizon, peacekeepers kept watch over the slaughterhouses; small bits of meat are far easier to steal than the large steer they come from. Even the smaller horses, used to keep the other animals in check, would prove difficult to hide._

There's a core of Careers left: four to be exact. Only seven tributes remain in the arena at all- these games have seen the bloodiest and most passive deaths in recent memory. Eleven died in the bloodbath, all determined to claim the oasis as their own. Four died of hunger and one died of thirst.

One was ripped apart in front of her eyes, the horse's sharp teeth making ribbons of his skin. The hovercraft picked up a cluster of broken bones to send home to the boy's family.

_She mopped her face with the scarf tied around her neck and pulled the wide brimmed hat low over her brow. The horse's fur wasn't helping matters. The ground swam below her._

_Someone a plot down let out a yelp and she could make out a speckled horse darting towards the plains, leaving his rider flat on his ass. She debated whether to chase down the horse: the reward for recapturing runaway livestock as well as horses was a good one. However, the risk of leaving her own animals unattended..._

_She turned her horse quickly, pulling at the bridle, leaning low, and speeding after the runaway._

Her rock shelter was comfortable: a boulder larger than her by enough to keep her away from the prying eyes of the other tributes.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said for the mutts.

The great red eyed- thing- was staring her down, several yards off. In a panic, she grabbed her bag and scrambled atop the boulder, to a height level with the horse's back. It continued its approach and she dove into her bag, pulling out a small knife she'd stolen from a dead tribute and a length of rope she'd gotten from another.

_Big-boned. That's what her sisters called her, their delicate hands being put to use with the foals. Too strong for her own good is what her brother said when he returned from the slaughterhouses. "'Atta girl!" her father crowed._

_She had started in the slaughterhouses, wielding the machines with imprecise movements and struggling to lift the large hunks of meat. So they'd put her on horseback, given her a looped rope and dressed her a broad hat, with a heavy scarf and tall boots and told her to go mind the cattle._

When the mutt reached a distance of three feet, she sprung. It was reckless, without a doubt but sometimes the benefits outweigh the risk. The rope barely caught over the horse's head but it caught enough for her to yank it tight, launching off the rock and onto the mutt's back.

Sponsorships soared as the scene unfolded in the Capitol.

She wrapped her left arm around the beast's neck, finagling the rope down further until it was secure around its neck. The animal bucked and she gripped its mane and the rope, her lifeline, for all she was worth. In between each rearing, she made incremental adjustments to the makeshift bridle.

_Leaning low, rope at her side, she reached the runaway horse and threw the noose around its neck, pulling it to an abrupt stop and remaining firmly on her own, knees pressing its side. The runaway accepted defeat, walking meekly behind her and she led it back to its owner._

_Fresh cuts of meat for the year. The risk was worth the reward._

It was twenty minutes- perhaps more- before the mutt settled down, accepting her presence on its back. She experimented, pulling the this way and that, coaxing the beast over to the rock. She leaned over and grabbed her pack, tucking the knife in her belt and using the sleeping roll as a makeshift saddle.

A parachute fell through the sky and urged the mutt forward into a gallop. Holding on to its mane with a single hand, she reached for the silver package, cutting off the strings of the parachute itself to avoid being dragged off her seat. If she fell, she was dead.

But the jerky the package contained- straight from the butcher- was worth the indefinite amount of time on the back of the mutt.

For the first time, her stomach didn't make a single sound when night fell.

_The wind over the plains provided minimal comfort as her name was called at the reaping. There would be no volunteers. When the butcher's boy was called, she knew there would be know return. It was in his eyes, in their escort's, in her parents. The whole District didn't think she could make it home. _

_She was just the girl who rode horses under the burning sun and he helped his father at the slaughterhouses each week. And wasn't the arena just one big slaughterhouse?_

Her partner was the tribute who'd been torn to ribbons by the mutt.

A canon sounded as she approached the Career's camp. Then another. Now was about the time when the Career's went out hunting- or turned on one another.

She paused, waiting for more. Hearing nothing, she assumed the two dead had attempted some sort of foolish invasion of the oasis. Foolish for them, leastways. Because after all, she was doing the same thing.

The outlines of the four remaining tributes stood out in the firelight. Three sat, drinking and eating freely. The other was bound to a rock near them. She wondered why but then realized it didn't matter- he was just a present left for her. She carefully tied her small knife to a long stick cut from a tree on the outskirts of the oasis; it reminded her of a cattle-prod.

The Careers finally seemed to notice they were no longer alone; she dug in her heels and took off, clutching the spear until her knuckles turned white. She flew into the clearing, aiming straight at the bound boy.

There wasn't even a need to use the knife: the mutt's hooves crushed his skull.

One of the other tributes screamed, drawing a knife and running at the mutt's legs with it. She cut his throat before he even reached her.

Then there was pain- the head of an arrow was protruding from the front of her shoulder, while the rest stuck out the back. She howled and her mighty steed bucked, tossing her to the ground. Landing next to one of her makeshift nooses, she picked it up unsteadily in her right hand and noticed the archer picking a losing fight with her mutt. The last Career approached her, long sword in hand, grinning broadly. Standing shakily, she stood, spinning the rope.

A canon sounded.

"Going to defeat me with a rope, Hun?"

She let it loose and despite a flailing attempt to chop it, the rope hooked around the Career's neck.

"Yes," she whispered. With a yank that used all her remaining strength, the knot tightened around his throat and she heard the snap of bone. A human's neck is far weaker than a horse's.

As the final canon sounded, she saw the mutt standing over her. Preparing for pain, she clenched her teeth. None came, however, as the horse stood over her protectively. In the distance, a hovercraft stirred the air.

_In District 10, the crowds cheered._


	12. last thoughts

we dream so long

_prompt seventeen: stars_

"Last Thoughts"  
>(Prim the Marytr, yes, she'd like that)<p>

Katniss killed, she saved.

She saved indiscriminately and her sister only killed discriminately so there was the balance between them and what set them apart in a war torn capital of a conscious depraved nation.

She watched the bombs go off at the Mansion, with all its frilly children surrounding it- it doesn't matter who dropped it, the destruction is the same. And not everyone is her sister., but there are plenty like her who rush toward the building, dropping any doubts along the way.

(Because children for children isn't how the Districts can afford to pay)

.

She had heard an old saying once, from a refugee from District Six, that life flies by the dying's eyes. Well, the old man was wrong. Horribly (thankfully) wrong.

Life goes on for the dying, just as surely as it has. But it slows to a crawl and every moment is precious, every moment of the instant.

Katniss is screaming, reaching for her like she had on Reaping Day. But she can't move fast enough and Gale isn't here to help her to the stage.

The air is hot- scorching and it hurts, hell it hurts so bad.

There's a building across the street, bearing the blackened brunt of the first explosion. People a multitude of colors crowd at its base, fliching from the fire and debris. But above them, someone is screaming and banging against a window with fury. Lit up by the room, dark hair and grey eyed and a soldier's uniform.

Gale.

A gloved hand appears, grasps his short hair and slams his head against the window and the man (never a boy) disappears from sight.

_Don't judge him too harshly, Katniss._

The fire is gone, and she's flat on her back with blackness closing in. The stars are visible in the mostly blacked-out city, twinkling amongst the brutality below.

_Gods and goddesses live in the stars, Prim. They watch and take the best to join them, in the end._

One last rattling breath and the blackness closes in completely with her final prayer that Annie Cresta is far more reliable than the old man from Six.


	13. recall

**a/n:** Using my research for National History Day as inspiration for fanfiction. Clearly, I'm on task.

we dream so long

_prompy forty-two: see_

"Recall"  
>(or how Panem is not the ideal place to raise a child)<p>

Panem is not the ideal place to raise a child. Even outside the Hunger Games, within every District, there are plenty of reasons that burn themselves to their retinas- what you see you remember forever. Life is brutal and beautiful is a mere fading memory after seventy four years of horror.

**one.**

Gloss has watched the Hunger Games for years- no one would dare say his family was unpatriotic. Still, it's his sister this year and that's far more intriguing. She's seventeen and was so confident striding to the stage, past the meek thirteen year old who had intially been picked. He's a bit awe, to tell the truth.

She beautiful in her ferocity, a siren in the arena. The blood is beautiful when it falls to her knife, mingling with the sand of the arena. And, he thinks, it's beautiful when it falls from her body, like the cherries Father had brought home the morning of the Reaping.

The boy is dead before he could take another swing at her and failing to staunch the flow from the wound at her chest, she reaches down, dabbing her finger in his blood and rubbing it across her lips- a garish lipstick. The parachutes fall like silver rain about her.

Three years later, he sees her smile beafically down at him, the newest Victor, and is all at once frightened for what she's (he's) become.

**two**.

District Two does not tolerate criminals or anarchists; they do not tolerate the lazy, the stupid. But most of all, the gravest crime of them all, is to speak_think_hear of rebellion. Rebels have not, are not, will not be tolerated.

For the good of a Nation, the newest rebels shall be stamped out like the old- of Dark Days legend.

Enobaria is ten the day a man is killed in front of her. His face is beaten and bruised, clothing torn, shoes covered in mud. His hair is long and limp at his face but his eyes- a brilliant blue- are alert and they dart around the tavern. Shouts sound from outside and Peacekeeper boots slap against the concrete sidewalks. No longer in perfect rythem, the sound is erratic.

She ducks behind the tall chair at the bar, afraid and unsure where she should go. The tavern keeper races into the store room as the first Peacekeepers shove their way through the door.

"Hands in the air and weapon on the floor!" A woman's voice calls. The beraggled man sneers.

The peacekeepers have their guns drawn, made in Two; big, black shining pieces of metal that would easily tear the man apart. Not to mention anyone in the near vicinity.

Suddenly, the owner reappears with a small pistol in his hand that he raises, level to the dirty, matted hair. A breath. Then there's a quick *bang!* and the once rebel falls to the floor with a thud, a perfect hold at the base of his skull. The Peacekeepers congradulate the owner, promising a grand prize for his bravery, and drag the dead man out to the center where he'll sit as a reminder until the smell becomes too much.

**four. **

Another year, another Victor. A career District after all, should have plenty.

The boy is a mountain of a seventeen year old, all ropy, bulging muscle and a hard mouth set to a perpetual frown. The games were a joke; with a spear in his hand he was unstoppable. Less than a week had passed before the Games came to an abrupt, neck-snapping, end.

Eleven year-old Annie sees him down on the docks sometimes, when she's sitting outside her father's messy store. He runs down to the end of a pier, diving cleanly as any District Four child into the green water below. She's not sure where he goes, but he returns the same time each day: the ocean is putting out the sun and the trawlers are coming home.

Until the day he doesn't- he is dragged in, body blue, wrapped in a fisherman's net with his limbs akimbo.

Two days later his family comes down to the pier as well, flopping into the waters with far less grace, with their hands tied. They come back ashore the same time as their son: the ocean is putting out the sun and their lips are bluer than the water.

**a/n:** Decided to only do Career Districts because of reasons.


	14. district two

**a/n:** So, I took Latin last year and it's a bit fuzzy, and Roman culture was the beginning of the year in Italian, so there might be a few inaccuracies.

we dream so long

_prompt seventy-nine: time_

"District Two"  
>(Bread and Circuses. Millennia haven't changed much.)<p>

Panem et Circences. It's Latin, a dead language. And Panem is a dead culture revived- a conglomerate of human history's worst moments. Slaughter under the guise of tribute, absolute rule under the guise of presidency. Politics and blood will rule, do rule, have ruled.

There was a place once, ancient to even the people of the dark days, who spoke the dead language that gives their nation its great name. Who gave its glory to the rulers and the winners- shining _imperatores_ and blood thirsty _gladiatores_.

And if glory is happiness, then why not breed happiness? Why not buy it? Because in the ring, the arena, the coliseum, everything is bought with steel.

If you start them young, they grow into their roles. And they leave sacrifice and replace it with honor, they leave fear and become _milites_.

And the capitol may remain the Palentine but District Two is the heart, the soul- District Two echoes the calls of Rome.

.

*_ emperors, gladiators and soldiers respectively_


	15. waking

**a/n:** I love these two.

we dream so long

_prompt nineteen: dreams_

"Waking"  
>(or how Gale convinced Johanna to trust him)<p>

They had started sleeping together because they were bored and it was convenient. Besides, they knew no one else in District Two, where the Nut still loomed high and proud and ghosts roamed- the souls of those who had the misfortune to go to work that day. It haunted Gale returning to the place as he left it- a military strategist with blood on his hands. Meanwhile, Johanna had blood on her hands for years, sticky and red and irremovable. They gravitated toward each other.

Johanna had no misperceptions about what this was- a routine, after work and on the weekends. They would go to the only bar worth going to and get drunk out of their minds before stumbling back- sometimes to her place, sometime to his. More often than not, it became his place she went to, allowing for her to sneak away in the middle of the night and crawl back into her own bed, back against the wall and knife under her pillow.

And yet, she's not sure when that began to change. When Gale sleepily reached a hand over across her stomach and nuzzled her neck whispering for her to stay. She would acquiesce, but always waited until he fell asleep before padding into the living room and sleeping on his couch, back to the wall and a kitchen knife under her head.

Gale discovered her ruse quickly enough and the next time she went over, she found his bedroom rearranged, with his bed pushed into the corner opposite of the door, against the wall. He offered her the outside, not batting an eye at the pocket knife she set down on his side table, right next to her clothing. He understood that trust and safety were hard fought and hard won. And one year of revolution wouldn't change five years of paranoia.

The first night, a nightmare woke Johanna and she immediately grabbed hold of her knife, tense and watching the door. Beside her Gale shifted and for a moment she was concerned she had woke him but he simply rolled over, breathing deep and evenly. She stared at the doorway for another hour before sleep overtook her.

...

Soon enough, she found her belongings beginning to populate his apartment- toothbrush on the sink, jeans in the closet, boots by the door. She would stay the night, sleeping in as late as she could before she dragged herself up to go to work. However, Gale woke at the crack of dawn each morning, either to go to his own job or to go for a run up the mountain. And each morning he carefully climbed over Johanna.

Finally he suggested they switch, at least on the morning he had work- he felt badly waking her up each morning on his way out. Johanna tried to comprehend how she had gotten to the point that this was an issue.

"C'mon Jo, you'll be fine. Trust me" he told her. Against her better judgment, she agreed and the word trust haunted her periphery.

...

She faced the wall, her knife resting in the crack between it and the bed frame. She stared ahead for hours until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer and they drifted shut...

She was dripping wet, muscles twitching, trying to run after Finnick. The lizard mutts were beating her there and the electrodes on her head and body held her back, tangling her limbs and making them contort unnaturally. She screamed for Finnick and he turned and just stared at her, the mutts catching him and...

Gale woke to see Johanna tensed and whimpering- Johanna Mason, whimpering. Nightmares. He reached out to touch her shoulder, not considering that she was a Victor, or what his own reaction would have been, or that she was armed. Her eyes flew open and she turned already mid-swing. The knife caught his temple.

"Jo!" he yelled. Her wild swinging slowed and the unfocused gaze became aware of its surroundings.

Gale sat before her, bleeding profusely from him head, hands gentle but firm on her thin wrists. He didn't say anything, just gave her time to gather her surroundings. Here was the worst, the moment between dreaming and waking where fear existed. Fear you haven't woken up. Fear that you have.

She glanced at her hands, at the knife flecked with blood. She swore and pulled away violently, jumping off the bed and bringing her weapon with her. Her hands shook, ever so slightly. "I'll be on the couch," Johanna informed him, scowling and turning away before she betrayed herself with tears and the panic she could feel growing in her chest.

...

For the next week, her belongings remained at his apartment but she didn't, always leaving in the dead of night to face her terrors in the comfort of her own home.

And for the next week, he noted the resurgence of his own- burning girls, beautiful and innocent and winged but unable to fly away from all those bombs. He'd wake up and stare at the knife of the side table until anger (or shame or sadness- no difference between them really) consumed him and he tossed it at his door with practiced ease. And each morning, he would return it to the side table.

She left as usual, without much more than a word. He closed his eyes to fire and opened them in a panic. He rolled out of his bed, picking his clothes up off the floor as he went. He left his apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Johanna lived five blocks away, further from the Nut and closer to the sparse woods District Two had to offer. The apartment complex was older, and after the war a strange mix of people had taken refuge there- families, to mine workers, to criminals. And Johanna Mason, perhaps the most respected (read: feared) of them all.

Gale rapped on her door loudly.

She answered it in not much more than she'd left his place in; a bra and, well, he supposed they could be considered shorts. An axe, small but an axe nonetheless, rested loosely in her hand.

"Hawthorne," she said irritably, "The fuck you want?" she asked. In the dim light, the cut that brushed his eyebrow glared at her.

"Come back," he said without preamble.

"Don't you know I'm unstable?"

"Jo," he sighed.

"One day I'm going to wake up to find I've killed you in the middle of a nightmare."

"I'm willing to take that risk."

"I'm not," she said curtly, beginning to close the door. He stepped inside.

"You care," he noted. She scowled.

"If you came to mock me, get the fuck out!"

"No. Come back. Please Jo. You have me begging," he barters. She stands silent.

"Pease, trust me."

She hasn't trusted someone since Finnick, and he died.

"Okay," she breathes, like it's painful.

...

She stopped sleeping with the knife but now she awakes screaming and thrashing until rough hands steady her. And it's okay, because it's her wiry, muscled arms that wind around his waist and stay there until he comes back to her. Sometimes they don't fall back asleep, just sit in silence. And sometimes, on the rare night, they sleep without interruption until the sun rises and Gale wakes to run.

The knife wound scars and about the same time, Johanna allows herself to completely trust him.


	16. fare thee well

we dream so long

_prompt forty-eight: storm_

"Fare Thee Well"  
>(Or how Annie sails her boat with sure hands and steady feet)<p>

Let it first be said that Annie Odair (née Cresta) lived to a ripe old age, given everything. And let it be known that at 84 she was even steadier of body and mind than she had been at 24. Let us inform you that out of any of the Victors, or of the rebels (we're looking at you, Gale Hawthorne), crazy-ol' Annie settled into their new life the best.

She returned home to District Four, not to the Victor's village but instead moving into the small cerulean cottage she'd grown up in by the docks. With Baby Tel strapped to her back she set about tidying the small home. She tore down walls, redecorated, and repainted. Johanna came some months later to see her godson and helped Annie build a truly spectacular porch, overlooking the sea, facing away from the dock. Just pure, open ocean.

When Tel was no longer a baby she started talking about how she wanted to buy a boat. Johanna was against it and so was Haymitch but Peeta, sweet Peeta who wrote her letters each month, thought it was a great idea. A perfect distraction.

So just like her home, she set about restoring her father's old fishing boat. And when restored to its former glory, all it needed was a name.

Everyone, her son included, assumed she would name it for Finnick. What other name would do? But Annie, with sure hands, painted a different name of the side.

...

_Let's not talk about ghosts_, he'd told her, years ago before she went into the arena. She had been a career, confident and proud because what else could be? She may have been a girl from the docks, a scholarship career there to help her family, but she'd passed all the training. She thought it would be easy. So she asked: "Finnick, what's it like to kill someone?"

His face had darkened and he'd avoided her eyes: "Let's not talk about ghosts, Annie".

When she screamed as her district partner's head rolled at her feet, she understood.

...

So on the boat, in black paint against brilliant white she penned "The Odysseus". Mags had told her tales, passed down from the same dead language as the name of their country, about the man sent away to war for years. Who was seduced by witches and sirens, who suffered at the hands of angry god. And all while his wife and son waited on the edge of the sea, waiting to see his ship on the horizon.

It was her favorite.

...

Annie Odair, formerly Cresta sailed every day. Until he was in school, her son spent this time with her. He loved to watch his mother's hands spin the wheel. He loved to watch her throw the nets and then with firm arms and callused palms pull them back in. It never mattered if the net were full- it wasn't about the money, and Annie donated whatever she caught anyway- but his mother sang as she worked. Everything, from District 12 tunes she learned from Katniss to District 7 ditties to District 4 sea shanties. The last were his favorite. When the weather was bright and clear, they would belt out the bawdiest ones, or sometimes the silliest ones, they knew.

_"Weigh heigh and up she rises."_

_..._

The last time anyone saw Annie Odair was a bright blue morning, in the transition from summer to autumn, sailing out of the dock on _The Odysseus_. She wore a green dress and no shoes, her hair grey and long around her shoulders. Tel wished her well, his eldest daughter clutching at his leg and the youngest cradled in his arms. He'd grown into nearly the spitting image of his father, just like everyone said he would. But his smile, his smile was all Cresta and on that bright blue morning Annie saw her legacy in her son's grin.

She pulled away humming her own favorite shanty.

_"And fare thee well my own true love_  
><em> And farewell for a while.<em>  
><em> I'm going away, but I'll be back<em>  
><em> If I go ten thousand miles."<em>

But as everyone knows, Annie Odair did not come back. Not that day, when the weather turned as it often does, to deep grays and dark blues. Not when the wind and rain broke a spindle on the porch of the cerulean house by the sea. Not the following day, when the weather cleared as the sun dipped below the surf.

The boat wasn't found for a week, nestled between the rocks of the islands off the shore of District Four.

And Annie's body wasn't either. But it was okay, everyone said, that the sea claimed her as its own. She was District Four through and through they said.

And the Odyssey is just a story, anyway.


End file.
